A Boy and his Zombie
by Lilzenium
Summary: "Hanna Falk Cross had always gotten by on his own." That is, until a certain undead male knocks on his door one morning.  Hanna/Zombie; chaptered.


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_**Author's Note: **As much as I wish Hanna and Zommie were my characters, they are not. They belong to the amazing Tessa Stone, whom I look up to in every possible way - and not just because I'm short. _

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**"A Boy and his Zombie."  
****Chapter one - In which we meet our protagonists.**

A Hanna is Not a Boy's Name fanfiction by Ruby Willis-Powell.

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Hanna Falk Cross had always gotten by on his own. He had little money, was generally clumsy and although he had faced death on many occasions he was, thankfully, still breathing. Some things he struggled with, like how high up the cupboard that held his cereal was -_ Oh, fuck! Why am I so short man! -_ and how to drum up more interest in his paranormal business, but he managed to smile through everything and get on with his life, a queer little world in which he contained himself.

He had few friends, and although it got him down, he thought it best; what he did was dangerous and he wouldn't be able to bear it if someone close to him was hurt due to his.. _skills. _Sometimes he would wake up in the night, terrified to the point of tears by a dream of his past, and long for someone (a room-mate, a partner, a mother perhaps) to smooth his hair down, hold him close and tell him "everything is okay", but he would push these thoughts to the back of his mind instead focus on reading the huge leather-bound volumes of books containing runes and spells.

There was a time when he was happy. He could vaguely recall it, but it was more like an old polaroid - grainy and fuzzy. He longed for something like that again.

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He was just waking up from his sleep, and reaching for the too-high-cereal-cupboard with cries of '_Goddamn, stupid legs! I should really change where I keep the food._' when there was a sharp, harsh rap at his front door. A frown creased his brow as he stumbled over his feet to reach it, and yanking it open he peered outside.  
Now, a normal person would have stumbled backwards at the face that met his. A long green face; angular nose, glowing amber eyes, the barest hint of a beard, and gaunt cheekbones. Stitches across the neck, just visible over a white, green and blue striped scarf, and a long trench coat with the collar pulled up.

"Mister Cross?"

Hanna's reaction was slightly different. He looked at the man in front of him and blurted out "You're dead!"

It's strange how a beautiful friendship formed that day. The Zombie, with no memory of anything before his undead state and no name, and the paranormal investigator, with only glimpses of happiness threaded through out his 24-year-old life and an imagination unparalleled to that of anyone else's. They became inseparable, closer than either of them had ever been to a person. They were business partners, room-mates, _best friends._ Each felt something they never had before, a bond so strong that nothing could break it; they had someone who cared about them. Someone to talk to in time of need.

Hanna and his Zombie. Zombie and his Hanna.

-x-

"Gallahad?" Hanna bounces into the kitchenette of the tiny apartment he shares with his friend. He clutches a cheque and a file and slams them both down onto the small rounded table top, battered from previous use. Indented scars run along its diameter, reminding Hanna and Zak that it's just as damaged as they are.

The undead male turns around, cocking his head as he smooths down the apron Hanna bought him for cooking. It's a white affair, emblazoned with pink lettering that announces everyone should 'Kiss the Cook'. Sometimes he doesn't know why he even kept such a silly gift, but Hanna's face every time he wears it makes his dead heart flutter slightly, and he remembers that it's for his hyperactive friend's benefit. After all, what else can he do but keep his friend happy?

"Yes, Hanna," James answers, turning the gas on the cooker down so as not to burn the pancakes he's been making. He once tried to teach Hanna how to make them, but they each ended up covered in the mixture and it took them an hour or several to clean up everything that had gone wrong. From then on, Gordon had decided he would cook and Hanna would watch. He already knows what his room-mate has to tell him, but he doesn't want to spoil the absolute look of joy on Hanna's face.

"We have another case! And this time they gave us some money upfront!" He practically bounces around the room, his curly hair flying and his grin spreading right across his face. He grabs his partner by the hand and spins around with him, happily singing to Queen. "Think how many month's rent we can pay! And even then we'll have money to get a new sofa or more books for you. I could even get a bed.. a _proper_ bed! Not a mattress, a proper fucking bed! Man!" He collapses into Harvey's arms, hugging him tightly. "This is what we've been waiting for, Xavier!"

Benedict hugs Hanna back gently, resting his chin atop Hanna's head. And then he pulls away, leaving Hanna wondering why he feels so oddly alone without the dead man's arms about his torso. He shrugs the feeling to the back of his head and bounces on the balls of his feet.

"There _has _to be a catch, Hanna," Galileo says, scratching the back of his neck. "There always is."

Hanna smiles sheepishly. "Well.. let's just say there's a gremlin infestation in the attic, and something particularly terrifying in the basement." He looks up at his companion, who wears a worried expression. The ginger grins and flaps a hand. "We'll be fine."

_That's what you always say._ Hippocrates thinks, serving the pancakes, but decides it's best not to say anything.


End file.
